


Hush

by LSPrincess



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Crazy Sherlock Holmes, Dark Sherlock Holmes, Detective John Watson, Evil Sherlock Holmes, Flashbacks, Gen, Heartbreak, Insomnia, M/M, Major Character Injury, Obsession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 06:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17657702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSPrincess/pseuds/LSPrincess
Summary: Detective Inspector Watson is called to a case that promises mystery and suspense throughout. But, as weeks pass and more and more similar crimes keep surfacing, Watson has to wonder if these serial killings are more than just a morbid obsession. Perhaps, it’s all a game. And if so, then the game is on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a _long_ time ago for a friend, and just recently remembered it existed and went back to reread it, so I thought I'd share it! Hope you enjoy!!

There are many things about mornings to enjoy: the smell of fresh air, the beautiful sunrise, the fog, the dew that waits so patiently on the grass to be evaporated by the warm embrace of the sun. There’s the cold, peaceful breeze of the morning, the birds’ sweet songs, the silence, the tranquility, the paradise.

However, Detective Inspector John Watson valued none of these aspects, and was never very fond of early mornings. But there was nothing that could prevent him from waking up — not alcohol, not pills, no matter how long he’d stayed awake, he always woke up. Always from the same dream. Gunfire. Explosions. A horrid, incapacitating pain ripping through his chest, and he awoke to ripping himself out of his sheets and falling onto the cold floor, drenched with sweat. He’d stopped wearing shirts to bed just because he was tired of waking up with them twisted around his body and sticking to his skin.

He was sitting at his desk, sipping tea and staring blankly at his laptop. His blog was opened, and he had prepared a post, but there were no words typed, no words in his mind, only fire, only explosions, only agony. There were no words on his tongue, only blood; no sights in his eyes, only soldiers collapsing to the ground; no sounds in his ears, only ringing.

Soon, there was ringing. _Real_ ringing — the ringing of a phone. John snapped from his daze and picked up his cell phone, answering it with a curt, “Watson.”

_“John? Hey, it’s…it’s Lestrade.”_

John nodded, despite the fact that no one could see. He had recognized the voice on the other end before they had introduced themselves. As easily as he could identify his coworker, he could also identify the stark worry stressing their words.

“Lestrade. What is it? What’s wrong?” John asked. When it came to work, he was never very fond of small talk.

_“Listen, do you think you could come in? There’s a case I need your help on.”_

John glanced out the window, wondering as to why the Inspector wanted him to come in this early — but it wasn't early anymore. The sun had risen almost a quarter of the way up the sky. He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

“Of course. I’ll be there in ten.”

_“Thank you.”_

 

John followed Lestrade, examining his surroundings. There were still people photographing the crime scene, still witnesses standing by crying and being consoled by more of his coworkers — noticeably Donovan.

“Ah, Inspector. It’s always a pleasure to have you around.”

John looked up to see Anderson smiling pleasantly at him. He offered a brief grin in return and ducked under the caution tape while Lestrade was holding it up.

“Yes, well, it is indeed a rare occurrence. Generally, the team is more than competent enough by themselves,” John said, glancing from Anderson to Lestrade expectantly, still awaiting an explanation as to why he was summoned.

“Yeah, ‘bout that,” Lestrade said, glancing to the concealed corpse nervously. “Well, as you said, we’re typically more than competent…”

_“But?”_ John pressed, leaning forward. “What happened? What changed?” he asked, shrugging.

Lestrade blew out an exasperated breath before replying with, “The circumstances.”

John squinted. He opened his mouth to reply, choked, cleared his throat, and tried again. “The circumstances?” he echoed.

Lestrade nodded, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and chewing on his lips.

John looked back to Anderson for support, but his head was dipped, his eyes wide and distant, just like Lestrade’s.

He slowly turned back to the inspector, his brow furrowed. “O…kay. Elaboration would be inconceivably helpful,” John said, his words taking on a bitter edge.

“It would be better just to show you,” Lestrade said, jerking his head toward the direction of the body as he started to approach it.

John followed suit, and as he was walking, his eyes mainly focused on Lestrade’s heels, he felt the air adopt a certain eerie chill, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He shivered, his head jerking upright, and he noticed that everyone seemed to be avoiding the concealed body, either standing a considerable distance apart from it or deliberately turning their backs. It was as if it were the most horrid thing they’d ever seen in their lives, and that made John’s heart skip a beat. He’d never been called in to deal with something that the other inspectors simply couldn't stomach — it was always a case of robbery that they’d reached a dead end investigating, or a kidnapping they needed help tracing, or, on occasion, it was a murder that they simply required an extra mind solving. But not _this._ Not this…suffocating level of disgust that pervaded the air; the overpowering sense of unease seemed defiling to a degree.

“Greg, what _happened?”_ John hissed, slipping his own hands into his pockets and bringing his shoulders up against a nonexistent breeze.

Lestrade looked at him with sad, bewildered eyes before kneeling down and uncovering the entire corpse with one fellow yank of the sheet.

And what a corpse it was. Lestrade promptly spun on his heel and groans and sobs reverberated through the air, but John stayed silent, stayed _petrified._ The body that lay at his feet was hardly a body at all, but instead an empty husk of a former being. Oh, God, a former _person._ This…bloody, desecrated shell, its ribs protruding from a nonexistent stomach, cracked and broken, the entire front cage removed to access the organs that had once been inside, but now there just sat a gory, fleshy vessel, robbed of everything it had once possessed. It was disemboweled, gutted from head to toe, every bodily organ in its abdomen missing. And John referred to the corpse as “it” because it hardly seemed fair to refer to it as a _human_ anymore. It looked more like a sheep so mercilessly slaughtered by a wolf, left empty and besmirched. The corpse wasn't even identifiable — the face had been mutilated, the skin flayed and the eyes ripped from their sockets. God, this wasn't a murder. This was a damned _massacre._

John blinked erratically, hoping, _praying_ that the sight before him was another morbid manifestation of the PTSD he so frequently denied existed, but now he was left begging to be able to use it as an excuse for this horrific spectacle. However, the body did not morph, did not dissipate into another mainstream shooting or stabbing or, hell, even a _strangling._ It stayed the way it was, everything there and yet, nothing at all.

He took staggering steps back, his feet moving faster than his mind was able to comprehend and he stumbled, falling hard onto his rear, where he continued to scramble back, kicking his legs, attempting desperately to propel himself farther, faster than his arms could carry him. His ears were ringing, his eyes were burning, and for a second he wondered if there actually _was_ something in the air, something suffocating, something gaseous and dangerous and something that they shouldn't be breathing at all.

But it wasn't gas, it was smoke, the smoke of a fire, the asphalt beneath him ablaze with the residual heat of an explosion, the ground littered with burnt corpses that had once been his friends, their eyes melted out of their sockets, their skin welted and wrinkled, charred and bleeding and peeling away from raw, unadulterated flesh.

_“John!”_

He looked around, seeing a group of soldiers charging toward him, their heads lowered and they were coughing, choking on the smoke, their guns clutched to their chests. One of them crashed to their knees and started shaking him.

_“John? John Watson, come on, we need to get out of here!”_

They were jerking him from side to side, his head lolling.

_“He’s catatonic, Admiral; look around, can you blame him?”_

_“John! John, can you hear me?”_

No. No, he couldn't. Not through the ringing in his ears, not through the screams that bounced off of the walls of his mind, not through the smoke filling his skull, clouding his eyes, clogging his ears. No, he couldn't hear, he couldn't see, he couldn't _feel._

“John!”

The image, the _world_ melted away before him like the skin of his friends and he was staring into Lestrade’s concerned, compassionate brown eyes.

“John? Can you see me? Eh?”

John nodded and took deep, gasping breaths, choking back the bile that threatened to rise out of his throat. He nodded again and then climbed to his feet with Lestrade’s help.

“What happened? You just…blacked out, it seemed. You were shaking, I couldn't get you to respond.”

John looked around at the people staring at him concernedly and he felt his face flush with humiliation. He turned back to Lestrade, his head lowered, and cleared his throat.

“Have you identified the body?”

“Er, yeah. Luckily, the killer wasn't _too_ meticulous, because they left the victim’s wallet on them. All of their information, their ID, it’s all in here,” Lestrade said, taking an evidence bag from Donovan and handing it to John. Inside of it was a black leather wallet, about the size of John’s palm.

John finally decided to pull on the rubber gloves that Lestrade had given him before they entered the scene and took the bag from the inspector, glancing up at him from under his brow before he opened the bag and extracted the wallet. Inside were three credit cards, a driver’s license, a small wad of cash, and a strip of wallet-sized photographs. John pinched them between his index finger and thumb and carefully withdrew them, watching them unravel to reveal a beautiful woman and two young boys, all smiling jubilantly into the camera.

A crippling wave of sadness and sympathy washed over John, and he passed the photographs to Lestrade, opening the back pouch of the wallet to look for anything else of use. Instead of seeing more money or more pictures, there was a slip of paper — bloodstained, like all of the rest, but the blood was…drier, darker, not still moist from where it had leaked into the dark accommodations of the wallet. No, there was a strikingly large amount of blood on this note, and John immediately withdrew it, unfolding it and reading the message typed there.

 

_From-Hell_

_Inspector,_

_Sorry.. I send you-half the kid-ney I took from one wo-man, pre -served it. The-other piece I fried and ate. It was very - nice -I may send you the bloody knife that took-it-out if you wait a while longer ._

 

_Signed-_

_Catch me when you can, Doctor._

 

John blinked at the letter, his heart tight with fear. The letter was addressed to “Inspector,” but the reader was addressed as “Doctor” at the end. John swallowed nervously. Doctor. Oh, how he hated being called that.

“Oi, what’s that there?” Lestrade asked, peering over John’s shoulder.

“It’s…a letter,” John said, holding his eyes shut for a moment.

There was silence as Lestrade read it, then he groaned. “There was no kidney. What the devil is this bloke talkin’ ‘bout?”

“It’s not relevant to the situation,” John said, turning back to look at the disfigured corpse that had once been James Lennon, according to his license. “It’s a copy.”

“A copy?” Lestrade echoed.

“Yes. The original letter was from the 1880s.” He glanced down at the note in his hands once more, rereading the words as if they, too, were a figment of his imagination stirred up by his PTSD. “It was written by Jack the Ripper.”


	2. Chapter 2

John chewed on his fingernails, watching as Lestrade paced around the room, massaging his forehead and listening to the hysterical person on the other end.

“Yes, yes, I’m aware, Mrs. Lennon, and believe me, we _will_ find them, but for now I just need you to — yes, I know — y-yes, but _please,_ just be patient! We have — I—I can’t understand you, Mrs. Lennon! Yes, I know, I know, but we have our best men on the case _as we speak!_ We’ll find them, believe me, we will.”

John glanced up, lowering his hand to his lap, still unaware of the fact that now four out of ten of his fingers were bloody and torn. Lestrade finally hung up and collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the floor and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyelids.

“Greg, it’s been three days and we have absolutely _no_ leads.”

“I know, I know. Goddammit, I _know,”_ Lestrade wailed, banging his head against the wall.

“And your best man is sitting here in the room with you,” John said, spinning slowly in Lestrade’s desk chair.

“Well then maybe we should get our lazy _asses_ out there and start working!” Lestrade shouted, pointing a shaking finger to the door.

John sat there, his lips pinched into a thin line as he tried to blink the sleep from his eyes. The desire to rest, the desire to close his eyes and forget that this all happened was almost unbearable. He wanted to crawl into his bed, the bed that held him every time He awoke kicking and screaming and swearing and sweating, the bed that made him realize that he _wasn't_ back on the battlefield, the bed that was more comforting and sympathetic and understanding than any person he'd met. That object, that _bed_ probably knew him better than anyone else, knew him better than he knew himself.

He sighed and stood up, crouching in front of Lestrade and placing a comforting hand on his knee.

“You should get some rest. It’s like you said, we’ll find them. Just be patient.”

Lestrade peered at John from behind his hands like a child who is too frightened to watch a scary scene in a movie but also ironically too curious to keep their eyes covered. _“Patience_ doesn't solve a murder, John.”

“Neither does a sleep-deprived mind,” John retorted, rising to his feet once more and walking to the window, staring out at the night sky and the busy streets below it. It was a river of red and yellow headlights and taillights, some blue, some white, some with one light burned out, some with both, some with all of them blindingly bright. The diversity present even in people’s cars was so quirky and whimsical that John found it comforting to a degree.

“But it’s like _you_ said, we have _no leads!_ Thanks, again, for pointing out the obvious,” Lestrade grumbled from somewhere behind John — he’d lost the motivation to pay attention anymore.

John smirked then shook his head. “We have _one_ lead.”

“Eh?”

He spun on his heel and stalked back towards the hunched and broken Lestrade, slumped against the wall like a discarded doll, its paint chipping, its artificial hair mussed and falling out from an artificial scalp, its once lively eyes dull and clouded. He snatched the paper off of Lestrade’s desk and dropped to his knees, waving it in front of Lestrade’s face.

_“This,_ Greg, _this!_ We have this note, this—this _letter,”_ John said, an unsettlingly fanatic smile stretched across his face.

“Yeah, uh-huh, and how is _that_ a lead? It’s not even hand-written!”

“No, it doesn't _have_ to be handwritten! We know that _because_ it’s a copy of a letter from the _nineteenth century_ that the murderer is either an avid reader, is well-versed in history, or is morbidly obsessed with Jack the Ripper.”

“Or all of the above,” Lestrade said sourly. John’s enthusiasm slowly dwindled until it blew out like the flame of a candle so prematurely snuffed. He fell back onto his butt, staring at the letter in his hands, the world around him fading out of view until that note, that paper, was the center of his focus. Such a small thing to be so reliant upon, such a small, meaningless thing to bet the whole future of this case on.

“Or all of the above,” John repeated dejectedly, smoothing his thumb over the bloodstained paper of the letter. “We’re dealing with a psychopath in its rawest form, Greg, and I don’t know if I’m prepared to either accept that _or_ deal with it right now.”

There was a long moment of strained silence between them before Lestrade reached forward and clapped John on the shoulder, giving his whole body a brief shake like a father congratulating his son on a well-played basketball game, despite the fact that the home team lost.

“Unfortunately, mate, we don’t get to choose our time, eh?”

“Lestrade!”

Both inspectors turned around to see a breathless, wide-eyed Donovan standing in the doorway.

They both jumped to their feet simultaneously, squaring their shoulders as if to impress someone that neither of them could see, trying to make themselves seem important and professional when they both knew that they were falling apart at the seams.

“Donovan? What’s the matter?” John said, being the first to speak.

Donovan’s chest was heaving as she took deep, calming breaths. “There’s been another one.”

 

John stood on the rain-slicked road, flashlights and headlights being the only source of illumination during the dark night. Several people were inspecting the wrecked car and the corpse that lay within it — gutted, just like the other one. John didn't want to risk staring at the body for more than just a second, afraid that another episode would plague his conscience.

“John!” Lestrade called, jogging up the slight incline to where John was standing. He was brandishing something above his head, a dark oblong object. John wasn't able to identify it as another wallet until it was right in front of his face. “They slipped up again — left another one.”

John seized it from Lestrade and hastily ripped it open, yanking out the license and passing it to Lestrade, not caring to even glance at it. He was on the search for something much more important, and at last, he found it after what felt like years of shaking out every last penny. At his feet lay a pile of change, cash, a handful of cards, a checkbook, more photos, two pens, and several receipts, and all that remained in the wallet was a folded piece of paper, tucked safely into the most secluded section of the wallet. John extracted it and tossed the wallet into the pile as well.

His hands were shaking as he opened the letter and read it.

 

_Dear Boss,_

_I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so-clever and talk about being on the right track-That joke about Leather Apron gave me real- fits-I am down on whores and I shan't quit rip-ping them till I do get buckled-Grand work the last job was . I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games -I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance Good luck_

 

_Yours truly_

_SH_

_Don’t mind me giving the trade name_

_PS Wasn't good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it no luck yet They say I’m a Doctor now ha ha_

 

John blinked again, his throat dry, his lips numb.

“Another letter?” Lestrade asked, craning his neck forward to read it, and John absentmindedly pressed it to his chest. These letters felt personal — this _whole thing_ was starting to feel personal, and that was sickening, a morbid concept that John wasn't even willing to entertain.

He finally gave in and let Lestrade read the letter. Again, silence, until Lestrade grunted and handed it back to John, unconsciously aware of how attached John seemed to be to them.

“Well, whoever they are, their grammar is bloody awful,” he observed.

John sniffed, his nose twitching with contempt as he stared down at the words printed before him. “It’s another Ripper letter — this was one was actually _before_ From Hell. It’s called ‘Dear Boss,’ if I’m not mistaken,” John said. “It’s almost a complete copy, except the punctuation and signature have been altered,” he commented, running his finger along the lines of carefully typed words, stopping beneath the signature; SH.

 

“We have to get _something_ in the papers!” Donovan protested, leaning forward. “They’re gonna want a story!”

“We don’t have a story to _give_ them!” Lestrade shouted back, flailing his arms animatedly. “We've made absolutely _no_ progress in a bloody _week!”_

“But there’s been another body — another murder,” Anderson contributed, tapping his fingers on the table. “Let them publish that! Let them know _something_ — let them know about the letters!”

“No,” John replied sternly, looking up from his bloody cuticles. Everyone around the table was staring at him, Donovan and Anderson gobsmacked but Lestrade solemn and accepting. “They can mention the letters, but let no one know what’s in them. Give them a whiff of the murders, but no gory details — don’t provide them with that information.”

“But the people _deserve_ the truth!” Donovan whined.

“The people deserve the truth when we _understand_ the damn truth!” John cried, jumping to his feet and slamming his hands down on the table. “Put it in the papers, but leave the details of the murders and the contents of the letters _out of it,_ do you understand?”

There was static prickling in the air between the four people in the room for a long moment before Donovan and Anderson nodded, muttering their agreement.

“What will we call him? We haven’t a name,” Donovan said at last after being shouted at by John.

“Isn't it obvious? He’s ‘Jack the Ripper’! Come back to terrorize London some hundred years later! It’ll make front page!” Anderson said with inappropriate excitement.

“No, people don’t need to be reminded of that,” John mumbled, smoothing the pad of his thumb over his nails and biting off any sharp points that snagged his skin.

“Well, what do you suggest then, _Your Highness?”_ Donovan drawled tartly. Lestrade shot her a warning glance, and she returned it fearlessly.

John looked up, meeting her dark, frustrated eyes. “Call him ‘Hush.’”

“Hush?” Donovan and Anderson said in sync; John’s suggestion even caught Lestrade’s attention.

“Eh? Why Hush?”

“The most recent letter — his rendition of ‘Dear Boss’ was signed ‘SH.’ Shh. Maybe he wants to keep us quiet.” John let his eyes wander over the faces of the other three people at the table. “Either way, be it intentional or not, he’s hushing us. Let us humor him.”

 

The window that John was staring out of was fogged, the glass covered with condensation, making the lights of the cars just outside appear as bright smudges. As always in London, it was cold outside, especially in September; the nights could reach close to twenty degrees. However, John had the heat turned up as high as he could stand it in his apartment (which was close to ninety degrees). He always seemed to think better when there was stress on his body.

A single drop of sweat slid down his temple and stopped at his jaw, staying there, gravity pulling at it, beckoning it, coaxing it to hang just a little lower, to risk letting go of John’s skin, and at last it did, falling to the floor to contribute the small puddle of sweat that was gradually pooling there.

The apartment was dark, eerie, silent, its only occupant sitting awake, restless. The hours on his watch ticked by faster than John wanted them to, like time itself was rushing him to work on the case, to _solve_ the case. But he couldn't — he simply  _couldn't!_  They had nothing to go off of except for the notes, which lay abandoned on John’s desk along with his blog. Screw what his therapist suggested — that blog was going nowhere and that was the blatant truth. He had never been very keen to publicize his agonizingly mundane life in the first place, and now that something exciting was _finally_ happening, he was surprised to find that his lack of motivation was even _greater._

Another drop of sweat slid down his cheek and soon fell to the floor.

Where could this go, what was he supposed to do? This was very obviously a game, a game meant for him, but he didn't know how to play, what to expect, how to predict his opponent’s moves, and in his experience, that was the only way to get ahead. It was like going into battle with no equipment — like someone cleaned him up, groomed him, dressed him in his best suit and sent him onto the front with as little as a pat on the bum and a “go get ‘em!” He had never felt so lost.

Another hour passed by and John knew it was midnight. He was on the floor, his sweat collecting beneath him as he flexed his abs again, bringing himself up for another sit up. He went back down and stared at the ceiling.

How could he hunt someone he didn't know, someone they had _no_ information about? How was he expected to dig up evidence and clues from the crime scenes that they’d spent _hours_ so meticulously combing through? How was expected to do _any_ work? What was he expected to do?

He flexed his abs again, his elbows meeting his knees.

There was only so much Scotland Yard could do before they just had to _wait._ Just sit there, twiddling their thumbs, staring at the phone, at the door, at the window, _waiting, expecting_ another crime to pop up. Maybe _then_ they could do some more work.

He flexed his abs again.

The sun was beginning to slant across the room, catching the top of his door in a beautiful, hot, golden light. Another night wasted thinking, fretting, arguing with himself about what he could do, _how_ he could do it when he knew full well that there was _nothing to do._

He flexed his abs again and collapsed on the floor, panting from both mental and physical exhaustion, his shirt once again soaked with sweat.

The silence was growing, and whoever said that it wasn't deadly?


	3. Chapter 3

Another flash of light behind John signified that the photographer was indeed not yet done recording the evidence.

There had been another murder — of course there had been. John had been called in about an hour ago and now was standing before yet another gutted, desecrated corpse. The only thing noticeably different between the murders was their locations — the first one had simply been in a parking lot, the second one had been in a wrecked car, and the third one — _this_ one — was strung upside-down from the rafters of a warehouse. Beneath them was a bucket filled with blood, _their_ blood, the blood that had once been pumped by a heart that was no longer present in their body. Blood that fueled organs that were nonexistent, blood that ran through veins that were gone along with their skin and their muscles and their flesh — everything was gone. Everything except for the face, this time.

However, to compensate for the intact head, this body did not have a wallet. Instead, the note was tied to one of their protruding ribs so that it dangled in the center of their cavernous corpse like an ornament on a Christmas tree.

John eyeballed it warily, watching it sway to and fro in the slight breeze that blew through the open doors of the warehouse. He finally reached forward and slid it off of the rib, holding his breath in an attempt to not inhale the sickeningly sweet scent of death.

He spun on his heel and took five large strides away from the body, promptly opening the letter to read it — he didn't even have to think about it anymore, didn't even value the presence of the notes anymore, it was just something that he expected.

 

_You thought yourself very clever I reckon when you informed the police. But you made a mis-take if you thought I did-n’t see you . Now I know you know me and I see your lit-tle game, and I mean to finish you and send your -ears to your wife . if you show this to the police or help them. if you do I will finish you. It’s no use your -trying to get out-of my way. Because I have you when you don’t expect-it and I keep my word as you’ll soon see -and rip you up._

 

_Yours truly,_

_SH_

_PS You see I know your address_

 

This one, this _particular_ letter sent shivers down John’s spine. This _specific_ note felt as if it were meant only for John — the others had, as well, but this was as if it were written _directly_ to him.

John glanced over his shoulder at the body, still hanging upside down from its ankles and still reeking of rot. People around him were groaning to themselves, closing their eyes and tearing up, gagging, trying to stop themselves from vomiting, and for the first time something inconceivably sinister washed over John — he found it _amusing._ He thought it _humorous_ the way that his coworkers couldn't stomach this, couldn't handle this sight. He found it _funny_ that stringing a gutted animal up that way was one thing, but when it was a creature of your own species, well, then it was simply unacceptable. He found it _funny_ and he _laughed_ inside.

He turned back to the note in his hands, a devilish smile embracing his lips and pulling them up at the corners.

“You think this is a game,” he said to no one in particular, as if the note were a form of communication, as if he could actually _speak_ to Hush through it. “Well, then,” he sighed, folding the note and tucking it into his pocket, studying Lestrade and the others as they worked on cutting the body down, “the game is on, my friend.”

 

John paced around Lestrade’s office, making circles around his desk as if he were a zealous puppy, massaging his cheeks and jaw and clawing at his chin with the nails that he no longer had; he had chewed them all off over the course of a fortnight. Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson had all gone to get coffee; they suspected it was going to be another long night.

John stopped walking suddenly and sighed, snatching up the three letters off of Lestrade’s desk and taping them to the wall, staring at them in the order in which he received them — “From Hell” first, “Dear Boss” next, and then the most recent one, one that John wasn't very familiar with, but one that he noticed had the same pattern of punctuation — random hyphens and periods strewn about.

John backed up and leaned against the edge of Lestrade’s desk, scratching his head vigorously as he stared at the notes because there was something, _something_ in them that he was missing, _something_ he’d overlooked, something staring him in the face, taunting him, teasing him, _mocking_ him. His eyes darted from word to word, from sentence to sentence, from every single hyphen and period and comma to the next. He read between the lines, beside the lines, behind the lines, _in front_ _of_ the lines and there was nothing, not a damn thing.

He heard the door open and a deep voice with a rich British accent mumbled, “Doctor Watson? I've brought you the forensic reports of the bodies as you requested.”

John nodded without looking behind him and waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, thank you, I’ll see to them in a minute. Just set them on the desk.” He patted the corner behind the computer and waited until he heard footsteps before he moved his hand.

There was a soft _fwap_ as the papers were placed, and then there was silence — no speaking, no movement, no anything.

“Are those the notes, Doctor?”

John nodded again, running his fingers over his chapped lips and peeling at the cracked skin. “Yes, they are.”

“Are you looking for something?”

John let out a deep breath and crossed his arms, standing up and approaching them so that he could study them closer. “I’m not sure,” he replied at length. “I've looked everywhere — I've _literally_ read between the damned lines!”

There was silence again until his coworker said, “Well, have you tried reading between the words?”

John frowned and contemplated the suggestion so deeply that he didn't even hear the door shut as the man left. Reading between the words? What good would that do? What the hell did he even—?

Suddenly, John’s whole body convulsed and he took in a stuttering breath. The words. What was between the words? The _punctuation._ Read between the words!

John spun around so quickly that he made himself dizzy. He kicked Lestrade’s chair out of the way and dropped to his knees, ripping the drawers open and tearing through their contents until he found a pad of paper and a pen. He positioned himself so that he was facing the wall again and began to jot down the strange punctuation, starting with “From Hell.” 

 

-..  --- -.-.  - --- .-.

D    O    C    T   O   R

 

Morse code. It was morse code. It wasn't random punctuation, it was _deliberate._ It was purposefully placed just for John, _just for him._ He moved onto “Dear Boss.”

  


.---  --- ….  -.

J     O    H   N

 

Fear. That’s what John was feeling, it was _fear._ Raw, unbridled fear. This wasn't a game anymore, this was _war._ He moved onto the last one.

 

.--  .- -  … --- -.

W   A  T   S   O  N

 

War. This was war.

John spun around and snatched the folder of forensic reports off of Lestrade’s desk, but not before he froze upon noticing the letter that lay on top of them. The whole world seemed to freeze, his watch seemed to stop ticking, the cars outside seemed to fall silent, and everything was _still._

That voice. The voice that belonged to the person that brought the forensic reports — he didn't know them, he hadn't _recognized_ that voice.

_Doctor Watson? I’ve brought the forensic reports of the bodies as you requested._

Doctor Watson. _Doctor Watson._ No one called him that. Oh, how he _hated_ being called that. A “doctor.”

_Are those the notes, Doctor?_

No one else knew about the notes. No one except for him, Donovan, Anderson, and Lestrade. _No one else knew._

_Well, have you tried reading between the words?_

The bastard had been in that room, in _this_ room with him and he hadn't even _looked_ at them! That son of a bitch. That motherfucker. He was that close to him, was standing behind him, told him how to solve the puzzle and _for what?_ To tease him? To taunt him?

To help him?

His hands were shaking so badly that it was hard for him to pick up the letter and open it, but once he did, he knew that he was on the battlefront, and he scrawled down the translation.

 

-.. --- -.-. - --- .-. / .--- --- .... -. / .-- .- - ... --- -. --..-- / .- -.-. -.-. --- -- .--. .- -. -.-- .. -. --. / - .... .. ... / -. --- - . / .- .-. . / - .... . / ..-. --- .-. . -. ... .. -.-. / .-. . .--. --- .-. - ... / - .... .- - / -.-- --- ..- / .-. . --.- ..- . ... - . -.. --..-- / -... ..- - / .. / -.- -. --- .-- / - .... .- - / -.-- --- ..- / -.. --- -. .----. - / -.-. .- .-. . / .- -... --- ..- - / - .... . -- .-.-.- / - .... .. ... / .. ... / ..-. .- .-. / -- --- .-. . / .. -. - . .-. . ... - .. -. --. --..-- / .. ... -. .----. - / .. - ..--.. / -.-- --- ..- .----. ...- . / -.-. .-. .- -.-. -.- . -.. / - .... . / -.-. --- -.. . --..-- / .- -. -.. / -.-- --- ..- .----. ...- . / .- .-.. -- --- ... - / .-- --- -. .-.-.- / -.-- --- ..- .----. .-. . / .- .-.. -- --- ... - / - .... . .-. . .-.-.- / -.-. --- -- . / - --- / - .... . / . -. -.. / --. .- -- . / - --- / ..-. .. -. .. ... .... .-.-.- / ..--- ..--- .---- -... / -... .- -.- . .-. / ... - .-. . . - .-.-.- / .-- . .-.. -.-. --- -- . / - --- / - .... . / --. .- -- . --..-- / -.. --- -.-. - --- .-. .-.-.-

_Signed,_

_SH_

 

_Doctor John Watson, accompanying this note are the forensic reports that you requested, but I know that you don't care about them. This is far more interesting, isn't it? You've cracked the code, and you've almost won. You're almost there. Come to the end game to finish._

_221B Baker Street._

_Welcome to the Game, Doctor._


	4. Chapter 4

The pace at which John charged out of the office was one of the many things that he didn't comprehend — that and the slamming of doors and the questions being shouted after him and Lestrade asking him where he was going. He wasn't cognizant of the other people in the elevator, nor was he aware of the man standing directly outside of the door until they extended an umbrella in front of him to stop him. He almost toppled over it because of the momentum at which he was travelling, but it was a rather decent wakeup-call.

“Doctor Watson — Or, it’s ‘Detective Inspector,’ isn't it?”

John looked up at the man standing next to him. He was tall and intimidating, his nose long and hooked and his eyes hooded and piercing.

“Yes,” John drawled. “No one calls me ‘Doctor.’”

“No, it would appear not,” he said with a devilish smirk. “Except for the killer, correct? ‘Hush,’ isn't that what you’re calling him?”

John squinted, his mouth gaping open. “H-How…? You can’t possibly know that — how do you know that?”

“Inspector, you’d be surprised about all of the things that I know. But, the stress that this case has put on you is  _ dreadfully _ obvious, so I’m here to tell you that I will gladly take it off of yours and the rest of Scotland Yard’s hands.”

John dragged his eyes up and down the man’s body. He was sharply dressed —  _ very _ sharply dressed; John could tell from two feet away that he was wearing an  _ incredibly _ expensive suit. His brown hair was receding and short, and his long legs made up approximately three-quarters of his appalling height.

“That’s awfully kind of you,” John said.

“I’m feeling generous, let’s say.”

“I decline.”

The man’s brow furrowed and he blinked, forcing out a dry laugh. “I’m afraid that you don’t understand, Doctor Watson, this is no longer your case.”

John bit his cheek and turned his body fully toward the man, squaring his shoulders and squinting at him. “It’s Detective Inspector,  _ sir, _ and I’m keeping this case.” Without awaiting a response, he spun on his heel and approached his car, but the man spoke again.

“Inspector?” John stopped and sighed, massaging his forehead. “This man —  _ Hush _ — he’s dangerous.”

John slowly turned his head around, so slowly that he could hear individual parts of his neck pop, so slowly that the felt like his bones were gears, rusted and worn with time and screeching in protest to any movement.

“He’s gutting and flaying people, sir, I’m quite aware of how  _ dangerous _ he is.”

The man swallowed and rolled his shoulders back, twirling his umbrella around. “You’re brave, Doctor. Bravery is the kindest word for  _ stupidity, _ wouldn't you agree?”

John narrowed his eyes and turned to walk again, but the man — as stubborn as he was — spoke again.

“He’s a snake, Doctor Watson,” he said sternly. “He’ll catch you, he’ll snare you; don’t let him. Don’t trust him. For your own good.”

 

In the night, as he drove, John’s mind strayed from the road. It ran, panicked, bothered,  _ terrified _ through dark alleys as he contemplated the possible, the probable, the  _ impossible, _ all while he drove, all while the car buzzed around his body as it hummed out a tune, a melody, a lullaby in hopes to calm him down.

There were few things that could startle John back to reality — the gunshots he  _ thought _ he heard in the distance, the blood he  _ thought _ he saw smeared on the roads, the heat he  _ thought _ he felt, the smoke he  _ thought _ he smelled — all of them had no effect on him; they hardly fazed him.

The only thing that he was focused on was not the road, but instead, was the note lying limply on his dashboard like a dead bird, its wings splayed out to its sides with its belly exposed to the sky, vulnerable, woundable,  _ killable,  _ and yet, John felt that he had no control over this bird — he felt trapped.

_ Are those the notes, Doctor? _

_ Well, have you tried reading between the words? _

_ Welcome to the Game, Doctor. _

The game. John gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white, until his skin was cracking; he clenched his teeth until he thought he heard them crack, but he only  _ thought, _ and his mind was a ruthless, unreliable place at the moment, and at the moment, John accepted that.

He had known for a long time — a  _ very  _ long time — that his mind was dangerous, that  _ he  _ was dangerous, and yet he’d locked that thought, that understanding away in the depths of his mind. His barbaric, ruthless, undependable mind, and he had no hopes of rediscovering that understanding, for his mind was nothing but terrors and memories that ran amuck through the merciless streets of his repressed rage.

There was something morbidly comforting in the knowledge that the only person — possibly on the face of the  _ Earth _ — that understood him was a killer. A cold-blooded,  _ heartless  _ serial killer who just wanted to play a game.

John hadn't even noticed that he was at Baker Street, was at 221B because he had been driving on autopilot, and as he stared up at the cold, shadowy facade of the flat, he noticed that it quite resembled a cold, shadowy face, one that concealed many secrets that you would only know if you could break down its walls.

He stepped out of the car and slammed the door. The frigid wind blew a cloud over the moon, and soon, the streets were bathed in sickly darkness.

Yes, a cold, shadowy face, one that concealed many secrets that you would only know if you could break down its walls. Or, in this case, walk willingly through its doors.

It wasn't a very far walk to the door of 221B, but it felt like it lasted an eternity, like John was quite literally walking to his death — Who was to say that he wasn't?

He reached up and tentatively took the brass knocker into his fist, lifting it up and letting it fall limply against the door again like it was some foul creature that John would much rather do anything else than hold. When there was no response, he grabbed it again and knocked properly this time; there was only silence. As he began to knock a third time, he thought he heard something; it was faint, a sort of…vibration in the air, a twinkling melody spilling out into the desolate night through the open window above him. It was faint, but still very obviously a violin.

John looked down at the doorknob, staring at it as his mind raced — he feared that it would quite literally fry in the process.

This was his choice — quite possibly his  _ final _ choice, and the future relied on whether or not he decided to turn that doorknob, whether or not he decided to walk into the Devil’s home, whether or not he decided to face the modern Ripper, to see him, to stare him down, to enter the house of Death, of Evil. And in facing this choice, he gripped the doorknob and turned it.

The flat was dark and cold, and at first, John couldn't tell the difference in the atmosphere from that of the climate outside, but he soon noticed that there was a tension in the air that the streets of central London had been missing, and John couldn't quite blame them.  It was suffocating, smothering, like he was drifting farther down into the depths of the ocean, the salt water filling his nose, his mouth, his lungs and killing him slowly; he genuinely believed that he could've dropped dead if he had remained right there, in front of the open door and at the bottom of the staircase that loomed over him.

His ears were ringing as he mounted them, step by step, an overly-dramatic ascension to his impending doom. Perhaps it was his racing heart, or perhaps the stairs really stretched on into eternity, but the process of climbing them seemed to last minutes, hours, and it gave John time to think. The door still stood open behind him, the cold night air blowing in — he could still escape. But now there was something pulling him, some gravitational force tugging him by his heart up, up, up until he found what he was looking for. The problem being, he wasn’t sure what that  _ was. _

The only thing that sliced through the disorienting tinnitus he was experiencing was the shrill sound of a violin bow screeching across the strings, and the music that had been following him since he was standing outside abruptly stopped. He looked up, a rush of anxiety seizing him like a torrent of water, and he realized that there was another door before him, standing slightly ajar. He extended a shaking hand, his cuticles still scabbed and raw and bloody, and he pushed the door open.

As it drifted open, there was nothing in the room that John could comprehend besides the silhouette of a man standing in front of the window; everything else was shrouded in shadow.

“I didn't think you would come,” a voice came, and John assumed (and  _ hoped)  _ it belonged to the man. His voice sent chills prickling over John’s skin, and it petrified him momentarily.

“Well,” he said, his voice breaking. “I have nothing better to do at night.”

There was a long moment of silence before the man lowered something, and John didn't recognize its curved shape as a violin until the man had set it down.

“Is that true?” the man said, lowering his head and turning it to the side slightly, giving John a dark profile — he could make out a long, sharp nose and an angular chin. “You…don’t have a wife, or a child? A dog, maybe?”

John snorted. “I don’t have  _ anyone.” _

“It gets a bit lonely, doesn't it?” the shadow replied at length — he seemed to be talking to himself more than anyone else, but John assumed that he wasn't very well-versed in social interactions.

“I prefer to be alone, Mr. Hush.”

The man before him straightened his hunched posture, and John felt something form a blockade in his throat — Hush appeared to be eight foot tall, now.

“Excuse me?”

“Hush — that’s your name. Well, to me at least. And to the rest of Scotland Yard,” John said, swallowing the lump in his trachea that threatened to suffocate him. “Perhaps, even, to the rest of England.”

Hush chuckled to himself and turned around, staring at John. He was now nothing but two small pinpricks of light where John assumed his eyes were.

“Yes, I saw it in the papers — is that  _ really _ what you call me?”

“I have nothing better to call you,  _ Your Highness,” _ John growled. Hush made a low sound similar to a groan and thrashed his head to the side, a shadowy hand moving up to correct his messed up hair.

“You should be careful with your choice of words, Doctor,” he said, his voice low and husky. “You never know what I like to hear. That’s what makes killers so fascinating, wouldn’t you agree? You know  _ nothing  _ about them.”

“You don’t strike me as a killer,” John commented.

“That’s what makes me so good at it, Doctor.”

“No one calls me Doctor — It’s ‘Detective Inspector.’”

“No, it isn't,” Hush said shortly, stepping down from a small elevation that John couldn't see in the dark room. “You worked for that title, you  _ worked _ to be a doctor — and an army doctor, at that.”

John could only faintly see the form of Hush slinking through the darkness like a cat, a shadow within a shadow; John couldn't even hear his footsteps.

“I can tell you for a fact that you didn't work  _ nearly _ as hard to become a detective — believe me, I was a detective once.”

“Once?” John echoed, silently encouraging Hush to elaborate. Something inside of him told him that it was wrong, but he had never expected this murderous beast, this… _ Ripper _ to be so fascinating.

Another chuckle erupted from somewhere to John’s left, and he jumped.

“Yes, once.”

“Did you know Lestrade?”

Despite his limited vision, John knew that Hush had stopped walking — there was a shift in the air that said so.

“Greg Lestrade?” John clarified when still no answer came from Hush — wherever he was.

“Yes…once,” he said vaguely.

John hummed understandingly, acceptingly, though a creature in the pit of his chest cried to know more, its cavernous jaws yawning open, begging, its razor-sharp teeth ready to snatch up anything more that Hush would give him.

“How disappointed would he be to know who you were? To know that  _ you _ were the one committing these murders? How much would it break his heart?”

“To counter that, Doctor, how badly do you want to kill me right now?”

“Sorry?”

“You heard me. It must be a little bit… _ difficult  _ to answer, I’m sure, considering that you previously devoted your time to  _ saving _ lives, not ending them, but I’m curious. On a scale of one to ten, how badly do you want to kill me?”

John lowered his head, trying to pinpoint Hush’s location in the room — somewhere left, somewhere back, somewhere close, somewhere far. He was like a phantom, like he was nothing but a disembodied voice that could roam freely, silently, like he was nothing but noise and it came from all directions, swarming John, encircling him with that rich, deep voice.

“How is this relevant?”

“Oh, it isn't, I’m just  _ curious. _ I want to play a game, Doctor, just a  _ little _ game. I just want to know. How  _ badly _ do you want to  _ kill _ me? How badly do you  _ yearn _ to take that gun on your hip and put a bullet through my heart, through my throat, through my  _ skull? _ To shower me with gunfire, to light this flat up with fire, Doctor, just to see me  _ once?” _

John’s hand hovered instinctively over the gun tucked in his pants. There was no way that he could have known,  _ no way  _ — he hadn't been  _ nearly _ close enough. Or had he?

“Oh, I’m hovering somewhere in the high thirties at the moment,” John said tartly, scraping his teeth over his tongue anxiously.

“I’m flattered,” Hush said matter-of-factly.

“You really shouldn't be — my mind hasn't been the most secure of places recently.”

“That’s not surprising. Such grisly crimes, wouldn't you agree?” He clicked his tongue, and something in John’s mind went off, an alarm, a signal — he knew where he was, he  _ heard  _ him.

“Those poor, poor creatures. Gutted, like the animals they were. Defaced in the way they had defaced the Earth.”

“They were people,” John spat, his anger flaring up inside of him.

“They were  _ things,  _ Doctor!” Hush screamed, and suddenly John was too frightened to draw his gun. “They were  _ monsters, _ and I made them into  _ things.” _ A laugh bubbled up from somewhere in the depths of Hush’s stomach and spilled from his mouth, crashing over John like the foamy waves of the ocean — it was hysterical laughter,  _ maniacal  _ laughter. “I made them into what they deserved to be.”

“You’re a psychopath,” was all that John could choke out.

“I prefer  _ creative, _ Doctor. I prefer to be recognized as what I am — an artist. I prefer to be known as a  _ mastermind, _ not another  _ thing _ who deserves to be locked up in a mental hospital! I’m not a  _ thing!  _ I’m not!”

Something inside of him must've snapped, because he was pacing now, rather loudly, muttering to himself. After a few moments, John noticed that he was reassuring himself that he was “not a  _ thing.” _

It was an impulse, a knee-jerk reaction, and maybe John regretted it, maybe he didn't, but he couldn't take it back, not now, not now as he pulled his pistol from his belt and fired off two bullets — the first one struck something in the distance and elicited sparks, and the second one…the second one elicited a shout — a yelp, a scream — and a thud.

John’s hand was shaking so furiously as he prepared to fire again, but a hand shot out from the darkness and grabbed his wrist, aiming the gun away from him just as he squeezed the trigger from fear — the bullet rocketed through the palpable, inky blackness of the room and shattered the window. The gun was wrestled from his possession and his hand was jerked viciously — he could hear and physically  _ feel _ his bones snap and break and pop. Now it was  _ his  _ turn to cry, his turn to stumble back and hold his limp, useless hand to his chest protectively.

“Disrespectful, disobedient, naughty  _ bastard,” _ Hush hissed, and then there was a click and blinding light. It took John’s eyes a long moment of erratic blinking before he could see again.

The flat that he was standing in was surprisingly nice. Behind him was a low coffee table, and behind that, was a plush brown leather sofa. Across the room was a desk, and on the far wall were two bookshelves — filled to the brim with dusty, decrepit books — a fireplace, and a mirror. In the center of the room was a black leather chair and a red armchair, something that John suspected frequently went unused. And before him stood a man, stood Hush, and John felt his voice leave at the sight of him.

He was  _ tall, _ taller than John had expected, and had a head of unkempt dark brown curls, curls that became a frizzy mess when it was too humid and curls that fell down into his face when he moved too much, as they were doing now. His face was chiseled like a marble statue, his cheekbones jutting out sharply, dangerously, his cheeks hollow and his skin a sickly gray. He was wearing a black button-up shirt with a black vest and a suit jacket on top of that. The jacket itself had a very strange and loud pattern — individually shaded and colored squares that gave the illusion of three-dimensional cubes, the color of gray darkening into a jet black near the bottom through a steady gradient.

But the thing that stood out the most to John was not his bone structure, or ashen face, or obnoxiously patterned clothing, but instead was his  _ eyes. _ They were a chilling, icy blue, but at the same time, they seemed so  _ dark  _ — they were by far the darkest eyes that John had ever seen. And in their darkness, in those…pits of brutality and desolation, there was this look that made you wonder just how many people he’s killed, and this grin that stretched his mouth by its corners to twice its size that made you realize…

He’s probably lost  _ count. _

He sniffed and corrected his hair again with gloved hands, then let his eyes roam over John’s body for an agonizingly awkward amount of time, his focus lingering on John’s utterly useless hand.

“Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart,” he said, closing the door that led to the stairs and locking it. John didn't notice until he turned his right side toward him that he had, in fact hit, him.

Well,  _ grazed _ him. There was a burnt, frayed rip in the back of his clothing and a gash that was oozing a slow stream of blood.

“Are you flattering me, now?” John asked, his voice breaking.

Hush looked up, and something glinted in his eyes that John would almost call  _ sadness. _

“I’m sorry, was it not good? Forgive me, flattery isn't my forte—”

“No, you’re damn right it’s not, so why do you try?” John snapped, tears spilling over his waterline and trailing down his face. “Why do you hurt me,  _ break  _ me, and then try to fix it with flattery, with compliments? What the  _ hell _ is your damage?”

Hush seemed shocked and hurt for a brief moment before his eyes fell on the tears that were streaming down John’s cheeks. “Oh, no, no, shh,” he stammered, taking two large strides forward and wrapping his arm around John’s shoulders. He pulled his glove off with his teeth and ran his thumb across John’s cheekbone, wiping away his tears. His face was so close to John’s,  _ so close, _ that John felt like a mouse, like a helpless rodent trapped in a python’s crushing embrace, trapped by pure muscle wrapping around him, constricting him with the sole intent of ending him.

Hush removed his hand briefly to take the glove from his mouth and place it in the hand around John’s shoulders, then he resumed drying John’s tears. “So soft,” he murmured, his eyes dancing over John’s features. “So perfect, just like I thought. So lovely,” he whispered, his hand moving up to brush his knuckles across John’s hair, but John pulled away, stumbling back and landing on the couch. Hush’s eyes widened with alarm and deepened with sadness, but he didn't make another advancement, just stayed where he was.

“Do you know why I did what I did, Doctor? Do you know  _ why _ I killed those people, gutted them, spared this world of their  _ hideous _ faces?” he growled, lowering his head and shadowing his eyes. “For  _ you.  _ I did it  _ all _ for  _ you _ because you’re  _ perfect, _ and you deserve nothing  _ but _ perfection, and those creatures, those—those  _ things _ were the  _ farthest thing _ from perfect! I rid the Earth of them for  _ you,  _ Doctor, because I  _ love you!” _ he rambled, and John saw emotion on his face that he didn't think he was capable of. He opened his mouth to express what he thought, to tell him how insane and barbaric that was, how sickening, but he couldn't — Hush’s eyes were pools of sickeningly sweet adoration and that caught John completely off-guard.

“I-I-I wanted to  _ cleanse  _ them, to cleanse  _ London _ for  _ you! _ It was an expression of  _ love, _ Doctor,  _ my _ expression of love, and you shrug it off as another horrendous murder, a ‘massacre,’ as you put it.” Once again, John opened his mouth to ask how Hush knew that, but he didn't get to this time because he cut him off. “That was  _ not _ a massacre, Doctor, that was  _ art!” _ he cried, his eyes actually beginning to water. “That was the greatest damn work of art I have  _ ever _ made, and it was all  _ just for you! _ All of the letters, all of the photographs left in their wallets — I bet you didn't even notice that they were all of families, of happy couples? You are  _ perfect, _ and I am the only one that you can be with, and even I’m  _ barely _ deserving of you, so how do  _ they _ deserve to live, to be in your presence? They—they were  _ scum,  _ Doctor,  _ SCUM!” _

He began to approach John, but John jumped to his feet, holding out his hand as a warning, a message —  _ stay away. _

Hush stopped in his tracks, his face falling impassive, dark. “Why do you hate me, Doctor?” he asked solemnly, his voice taking on the tone of a pitiful child. “Why can’t you love me back? Don’t you see that I’m trying? Please, Doctor, please,  _ please _ don’t leave me,” he begged, his certainty of his voice fading until there was nothing but piteous pleading. “I've followed you, I've let you go before —  _ God, _ letting you go was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Please, Doctor…don’t let me go. Don’t leave me like  _ he  _ did…”

John’s mouth was hanging open and his eyes were beginning to sting — this man was  _ sick, _ this man was  _ insane, _ but there was such sincere  _ love _ in that confession that he couldn't help but feel sorry for him, even just a little. The least he could do was humor him.

“Like  _ who  _ did, Hush?” he muttered, just loud enough for to be heard.

Hush looked up. There was confliction in his eyes, as if he couldn't decide whether or not to tell John the truth, but he finally did. “My owner…my  _ creator, _ my master.”

John leaned forward, suddenly intrigued, his mind trying to think through the fog of pain, his hand resting on his thigh.  _ “Who, _ Hush?”

Hush lowered his eyes, tears clinging to his long, dark eyelashes. “Moriarty.” He glanced up to look at John, to see if the name struck a bell — it did not. “He  _ wanted  _ me — he said he loved me. He promised me paradise — maybe he does love me, but he doesn't show it, not like  _ I _ do, not like I do for  _ you,” _ he said, rushing forward and getting on his knees. He cupped John’s intact hand in his own and stared up at him with those damned eyes, those pools of emotion, those pits of insanity.

“But I won’t leave you,” he insisted, his voice breathy and desperate. “No one will ever hurt you, I promise — I’ll protect you.” He extended a hesitant hand and placed it on top of John’s broken one. “I-I’ll  _ fix _ this, I promise. Just… _ I promise,”  _ he whispered, lowering his head. “Do you trust me?”

John sat there for a long moment, conflicted, thinking,  _ remembering. _

_ Don’t trust him. For your own good. _

John didn't necessarily trust  _ that _ man, either — he’d known  _ far _ too much about the case, and that was unnerving, but something told him that he had pure intentions.

“No,” he replied curtly. He felt Hush tense, could practically  _ hear _ his heartbreak. “No, Hush, I don’t trust you. But I believe you.”

Hush looked up suddenly, his eyes filled with tears. A smile spread across his shaky lips and he let out a dry laugh. “That’s all I ask, Doctor, that’s  _ all I ask.” _

He stood up and walked away, his back to John as he fiddled with something in his pockets. John studied him — it was all that he could do, and all that was going through his mind was that mysterious man’s words.

_ He’s a snake, Doctor Watson. He’ll catch you, he’ll snare you; don’t let him. _

Something told John that it was too late.

“That which vexes all men is the inability to control others, wouldn't you agree, Doctor?” Hush asked over his shoulder.

John could hardly comprehend his words, let alone their hidden philosophical meaning, and he saw no point in lying to his man. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“That’s quite all right, I’ll explain,” Hush said in an almost reassuring manner. “Men are troubled by the understanding that they cannot control. Of course, they can persuade, they can manipulate, but they cannot  _ control. _ Do you agree with that?”

John stared at this swollen wrist, hardly able to imagine what the mangled bones beneath it looked like. “Yes,” he replied simply. “I mean, I guess so. The human mind is independent.”

“But _ is _ it?” Hush said, glancing back at John, a smile gracing his face. “I killed those people because I  _ love  _ you, Doctor, but I killed them in a way that would trigger your memories —  _ dark _ memories, and I’m sorry for any pain that they've caused you, but I wanted to break you,  _ needed  _ to break you just a  _ little more.” _

John frowned. “Why are you telling me this? I’m not sure if you’re aware, but that’s quite the opposite of flattering.”

Hush chuckled.  _ “That _ one I  _ am _ aware of, Doctor, but believe me, soon, you won’t care.” He turned back around, his hands held behind his back. “Soon, I’ll be the only thing that you can think of.”

For the first time in the twenty or so minutes that had passed, John felt a twinge of fear. Instead of hunkering down, he sat up straighter and lifted his chin up. “And how do you plan to do that?” he asked.

In the split second that John registered the smile on Hush’s face, was the split second before John heard a gunshot, felt a horrid, incapacitating pain ripping through his chest, and he thought, for a moment, that he would awake to ripping himself out of his sheets and falling onto the cold floor, drenched with sweat. He thought that what he heard, what he  _ felt _ was all fake, was all a lie, a trick played by his mind, but it wasn't, because he could feel the blood seeping into his clothes from the hole in his chest, and when he looked down, he was  _ dying. _

He was so occupied by the pain that he didn't notice Hush’s footsteps charging toward him, didn't notice when he crashed forward on his knees and held John’s hand, pressing a handkerchief to the wound and injecting him with a syringe.

“Shh, shh,” he chanted, rubbing his thumb over John’s knuckles. “It’ll be all right — it’s morphine, see?” he said, holding up the now empty vile. “It’ll help with the pain — it’s a small dosage, though, so it’ll only help a little bit, but it’s still something, isn't it? Shh, shh, Doctor, it’s all right, just let this happen,” he mumbled, but John was already slipping in and out of consciousness, only hearing half of what Hush was saying and comprehending none of it. He reached up with bloody hands and cupped John’s head, stroking his cheek. “You’re so perfect, Doctor. How the world made you, I’ll never know. We can be happy together, I promise, I just need you to trust me. I just need you to  _ hush.” _


	5. Chapter 5

John stared at himself in the mirror, scrutinizing his outfit. The suit was too tight — no, too big — maybe just right? No, it couldn't be, it felt so  _ wrong. _ And his  _ tie, _ what the devil was wrong with it? It felt suffocating, it was choking him, strangling him with long, lanky, striped fingers, wrapping them endlessly around his neck and squeezing him, squeezing the life out of him.

He reached up to claw at it, but two cold hands found his, gripping them and lowering them to his sides, gripping his arm.

_ “Watch me,”  _ he hissed in John’s ear, and he let his cold fingers dance over John’s suit. Oh, how smooth it was, how well-tailored, how  _ perfect _ , just like the body it encompassed. He pinched the knot of the tie between three fingers and straightened it, for it was slightly askew from all of John’s fidgeting. He traced his fingertips over the outline of John’s broad shoulders, dragging them up his neck and tilting his chin up. He smiled, his eyes shadowed from the angle he had positioned his head into as he dragged his teeth over the crest of John’s ear.

“You look  _ perfect,” _ he said.

John straightened, now seeing his perfection as clearly as the nose on his face — was there something wrong with his nose? No, there mustn't be.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” he said in reply, leaning against the body behind him. “I know.”


End file.
